Life is Hard When You're a Parasite
by RestIsRustandStardust
Summary: Poor Voldemort - his soul is split up into eight portions, and each one has a hard time of it. All the Dark Lord wanted to do is kill Harry Potter, take over the world, destroy all mudbloods, and what does he get for all his efforts? Snowballs in the face from those blasted Weasley twins. Rated T for language.


**A/N: Okay, so this was a really weird idea that I came up with, I'm not going to lie. But I thought it would be hella funny, so I just decided to roll with it. This is the soul-piece from the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone. I sort of based this off of AVPM's version of Voldemort as well, by the way. Enjoy!**

Looking back on it, Voldemort sort of wished he chose a different head. True, Quirrell had all of the traits he wanted. Submissive, convenient, young . . . bald. But Voldemort was starting to think that Snape would have been a better choice. He was less submissive, but no students would have dared to cross the oily haired man. For, at the moment, Voldemort's soul was being pelted by snowballs. And the turban was nowhere near waterproof.

Voldemort was honestly starting to feel a little bit attacked. All he wanted to do was kill the Potter boy, take over the Wizarding World, and destroy every mudblood and living soul that stood in his way.

It was simple, honestly.

But, alas, children were cruel, especially those goddamned Weasley twins.

Voldemort liked submission, and he knew that his p-p-poor s-s-stuttering qu-qu-Quirrell was a perfect vessel for him to fly under the radar in order to get into Hogwarts. And Dumbledore was weak. Couldn't even figure out that the Dark Lord was literally a parasite, sucking the very essence of life from a Hogwarts professor from the back of Quirrell's head. He couldn't even figure out that Voldemort himself was present in the castle for over eight months.

Well, Voldmort was making it sound like it was easy to live on the back of Quirrell's head.

And it most certainly was _not_.

For one, Quirrell never deemed it necessary to wash that damned turban. Or even use _another_ turban for that matter. It was musty as hell underneath it, full of dust mites and Voldemort was pretty sure that he was sharing his cloth prison with some medium sized rodent. Of course, it didn't help that Voldemort was allergic to pollen, and his lack of nostrils meant that _everything_ went straight up there. It took all of his willpower to _not_ sneeze during Quirrell's lessons.

And of course, there was the fact that he was on the back of Quirrell's head, of all people. For one, he wasn't even a _Slytherin._ He was a goddamned _Ravenclaw_. Back when Voldemort was Tom, the young, foolish child, he hated the Ravenclaws - pretentious assholes not so unlike the Slytherins, but still thought they were above their green-clad schoolmates because they were not just cunning, they were _smart_ too. Ever since, Voldemort hated the pretentious assholes.

He used to teach Muggle Studies. MUGGLE STUDIES! Of all people to stumble across his soul in Albania, it had to be the _Muggle Studies_ teacher from Hogwarts. Voldemort already disliked Quirrell on principle because he was a half-blood, but a Muggle Studies teacher? It was almost like Quirrell was trying to make the Dark Lord hate him.

Not only that, but Quirrell was a painfully awkward person. _Painfully._ Awkward. Quirrell wasn't a natural stutterer, and he wasn't nearly so shy as he came off as, but whenever the man would go out on the town and get a couple drinks, he would try to talk to girls. Emphasis on the word _try_. It was just bad. Very, very bad. He would start talking about banshees and shit. If a girl ever showed interest in him (which Voldemort would have no idea why, he watched this man wipe shit off his ass daily, there wasn't much underneath the robes to brag about), Quirrell would just turn red and walk quickly away. Whenever Voldemort would try to give some wingman advice, to help this guy just a little - yes, the Dark Lord tried to help his slave, if only to make the months until Potter's demise and his recreation of a body - the man would just fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness for being a failure. Honestly, it was so bad.

And then, Quirrell just had to be the perfect target for bullying by his own students. A coward and wearing some big ass turban did that to you. Especially from those snot-nosed, blood-traitor Weasley twins.

Yet another snowball melted into the turban as Quirrell ran from the enchanted snowballs.

 _Take out your wand you blithering fool!_ Voldemort hissed into Quirrell's thoughts.

 _O-of course master! I am a worthless worm, my dark king, a thousand apologies!_ Quirrell apologized profusely in his head to Voldemort.

 _Oh just do it!_ Voldemort hissed back. The nest of mice was starting to get antsy from the pounding of the snowballs, and Voldemort was worried that they would chew off what was left of his nose.

" _Agua Eructo!_ " Voldemort heard Quirrell shout. Voldemort tunneled his vision through Quirrell's brain so he could see what was going on. A jet of fire had erupted from the tip of his slave's wand, but the snowballs simply dodged the spit and continued chasing after Quirrell and his turban. Voldemort swore he could hear them _laughing_ at the professor.

 _Fool! Relinquish your control to me, and_ I _will get rid of them!_ Voldemort scoffed into Quirrell's ear. He could feel the young man hesitate slightly before slipping back into his subconscious, giving basic motor skills and brain function to Lord Voldemort. Despite his claims of absolute obedience, Quirrell still hesitated to fully trust his master - he disliked giving Voldemort the power of his body. Rightfully so, as Voldemort truly did not care what happened to Quirrell's body in the process of his mission, but the Dark Lord was still displeased. He often wished that Bellatrix had been a little more careful after his bodily destruction eleven years ago - the woman was nuts, there was no denying, but she would be a worthy vessel of the Dark King. Not only did Voldemort have her absolute devotion, she was also competent in wizardry - he would never have to take control over her body. But, irritatingly, she had to make herself a well-known Death Eater and torture those Longbottoms until their brains rotted . . . but no matter. Quirrell would do until Voldemort's Ascension. Voldemort relished in the feeling of having fingers, toes, a _body_. Nowhere near the caliber of his old body's perfection, but at least is was a _body_. Voldemort loved snakes, but he didn't really have the taste buds for rats everyday.

" _Adolebitque!_ " Voldemort shouted through Quirrell's mouth. He felt immense power running through his frail vessel, almost burning away the body itself. The snowballs immediately shriveled into water and dripped to the ground. Voldemort turned Quirrell's eyes on the Weasleys, watching them with faint amusement as they ran away. He slipped back into Quirrell's subconscious (he could not hold a human body long before he felt immense pain) still cackling.

 _Uhhhh, my Dark King? Shall we go back to discussing our evil plan?_ Quirrell asked hesitantly.

 _Oh. Right, slave, of course. I was just about to suggest that before you so rudely interrupted your Supreme Leader._ Voldemort snapped, his amusement fading. Quirrell was so annoying. All he wanted were some competent, pureblood, Slytherin Death Eaters, and what did he get? A whiny little bitch who wouldn't let him have fun. Just his luck. Life truly wasn't fair for the Dark Lord.


End file.
